An online magazine about the paranormal, haunted and macabre. We collect the ghost stories from all around the world as well as review horror and gothic media.
Translated from the 1871 Czech original Vampyr. The story is set on the Island of Büyükada outside of Istanbul. It is called Prinkipos in the story as it is the Greek name for it. The Narrator tells us about what happened on an excursion to the Island with a few strangers. One of them is a sickly young girl. There is also a strange young man, who appears to be an artist saying he wants to paint everything he sees. It turns out that the locals call him The Vampire because whenever he draws someone he dies shortly after.
Translated from the 1871 Czech original Vampyr. The story is set on the Island of Büyükada outside of Istanbul. It is called Prinkipos in the story as it is the Greek name for it. The Narrator tells us about what happened on an excursion to the Island with a few strangers. One of them is a sickly young girl. There is also a strange young man, who appears to be an artist saying he wants to paint everything he sees. It turns out that the locals call him The Vampire because whenever he draws someone he dies shortly after.
The excursion steamer brought us from Constantinople to the shore of the island of Prinkipo and we disembarked. The number of passengers was not large. There was one Polish family, a father, a mother, a daughter and her bridegroom, and then we two. Oh yes, I must not forget that when we were already on the wooden bridge which crosses the Golden Horn to Constantinople a Greek, a rather youthful man, joined us. He was probably an artist, judging by the portfolio he carried under his arm. Long black locks floated to his shoulders, his face was pale, and his black eyes were deeply set in their sockets. In the first moment he interested me, especially for his obligingness and for his knowledge of local conditions. But he talked too much, and I then turned away from him.
All the more agreeable was the Polish family. The father and mother were good-natured, fine people, the lover a handsome young fellow, of direct and refined manners. They had come to Prinkipo to spend the summer months for the sake of the daughter, who was slightly ailing. The beautiful pale girl was either just recovering from a severe illness or else a serious disease was just fastening its hold upon her. She leaned upon her lover when she walked and very often sat down to rest, while a frequent dry little cough interrupted her whispers. Whenever she coughed, her escort would considerately pause in their walk. He always cast upon her a glance of sympathetic suffering and she would look back at him as if she would say: “It is nothing. I am happy!” They believed in health and happiness.
On the recommendation of the Greek, who departed from us immediately at the pier, the family secured quarters in the hotel on the hill. The hotel-keeper was a Frenchman and his entire building was equipped comfortably and artistically, according to the French style.
We breakfasted together and when the noon heat had abated somewhat we all betook ourselves to the heights, where in the grove of Siberian stone-pines we could refresh ourselves with the view. Hardly had we found a suitable spot and settled ourselves when the Greek appeared again. He greeted us lightly, looked about and seated himself only a few steps from us. He opened his portfolio and began to sketch.
“I think he purposely sits with his back to the rocks so that we can’t look at his sketch,” I said.
“We don’t have to,” said the young Pole. “We have enough before us to look at.” After a while he added, “It seems to me he’s sketching us in as a sort of background. Well let him!”
We truly did have enough to gaze at. There is not a more beautiful or more happy corner in the world than that very Prinkipo! The political martyr, Irene, contemporary of Charles the Great, lived there for a month as an exile. If I could live a month of my life there I would be happy for the memory of it for the rest of my days! I shall never forget even that one day spent at Prinkipo.
The air was as clear as a diamond, so soft, so caressing, that one’s whole soul swung out upon it into the distance. At the right beyond the sea projected the brown Asiatic summits; to the left in the distance purpled the steep coasts of Europe. The neighboring Chalki, one of the nine islands of the “Prince’s Archipelago,” rose with its cypress forests into the peaceful heights like a sorrowful dream, crowned by a great structure—an asylum for those whose minds are sick.
The Sea of Marmora was but slightly ruffled and played in all colors like a sparkling opal. In the distance the sea was as white as milk, then rosy, between the two islands a glowing orange and below us it was beautifully greenish blue, like a transparent sapphire. It was resplendent in its own beauty. Nowhere were there any large ships—only two small craft flying the English flag sped along the shore. One was a steamboat as big as a watchman’s booth, the second had about twelve oarsmen and when their oars rose simultaneously molten silver dripped from them. Trustful dolphins darted in and out among them and dove with long, arching flights above the surface of the water. Through the blue heavens now and then calm eagles winged their way, measuring the space between two continents.
The entire slope below us was covered with blossoming roses whose fragrance filled the air. From the coffee-house near the sea music was carried up to us through the clear air, hushed somewhat by the distance.
The effect was enchanting. We all sat silent and steeped our souls completely in the picture of paradise. The young Polish girl lay on the grass with her head supported on the bosom of her lover. The pale oval of her delicate face was slightly tinged with soft color, and from her blue eyes tears suddenly gushed forth. The lover understood, bent down and kissed tear after tear. Her mother also was moved to tears, and I—even I—felt a strange twinge.
“Here mind and body both must get well,” whispered the girl. “How happy a land this is!”
“God knows I haven’t any enemies, but if I had I would forgive them here!” said the father in a trembling voice.
And again we became silent. We were all in such a wonderful mood—so unspeakably sweet it all was! Each felt for himself a whole world of happiness and each one would have shared his happiness with the whole world. All felt the same—and so no one disturbed another. We had scarcely even noticed that the Greek, after an hour or so, had arisen, folded his portfolio and with a slight nod had taken his departure. We remained.
Finally after several hours, when the distance was becoming overspread with a darker violet, so magically beautiful in the south, the mother reminded us it was time to depart. We arose and walked down towards the hotel with the easy elastic steps that characterize carefree children. We sat down in the hotel under the handsome veranda.
Hardly had we been seated when we heard below the sounds of quarrelling and oaths. Our Greek was wrangling with the hotel-keeper, and for the entertainment of it we listened.
The amusement did not last long. “If I didn’t have other guests,” growled the hotel-keeper, and ascended the steps towards us.
“I beg you to tell me, sir,” asked the young Pole of the approaching hotel-keeper, “who is that gentleman? What is his name?”
“Eh-who knows what the fellow’s name is?” grumbled the hotel-keeper, and he gazed venomously downwards. “We call him the Vampire.”
“An artist?”
“Fine trade! He sketches only corpses. Just as soon as someone in Constantinople or here in the neighborhood dies, that very day he has a picture of the dead one completed. That fellow paints them beforehand—and he never makes a mistake—just like a vulture!”
The old Polish woman shrieked affrightedly. In her arms lay her daughter pale as chalk. She had fainted.
In one bound the lover had leaped down the steps. With one hand he seized the Greek and with the other reached for the portfolio.
We ran down after him. Both men were rolling in the sand. The contents of the portfolio were scattered all about. On one sheet, sketched with a crayon, was the head of the young Polish girl, her eyes closed and a wreath of myrtle on her brow.
Said to haunt his former childhood home that is now the Bull and Castle Pub in Dublin, the ghost of the melancholic writer James Clarence Mangan is said to linger.
Deep in the farmland of Norway, Toten has a lot of ghost stories lingering on the old farms and buildings. Who were the priests said to haunt the Hoff Church and rectory, and who are the ghosts said to linger at the old Stenberg Manor?
Outside of Dublin overlooking the Irish sea, a white lady is said to be haunting the premise. Seen coming up from the beach and wandering on the castle grounds, the ghost that is called the Lady of the Stairs is just one of the ghosts said to linger at Ardgillan Castle.
In the woodlands on the Hill of the Dead, the Sanctuary of Somazzo or Church of San Giuseppe has been the place of a strange pilgrimage for ages. According to legend, praying to the three girls said to be entombed alive in the church is said to bring rain in times of drought.
Frozen in all eternity as a stone below the old castle of Duino on the cliffs. It is said to be haunted by the Lady in White, the former lady of the castle, thrown off the cliffs by her jealous husband. Now she returns to the castle to watch over her child she left behind.
Bordering Norway and Sweden, the mysterious Finnskogen forest, with its deep rooted trees holds ghosts, curses and lingering spirits. Like the poltergeist like ghost at Välgunaho farm, who drove its residents away and left it abandoned for over a century.
Now, the former barracks has turned into the National Museum of Ireland. If we are to believe the rumours, the ghosts of war from the former Collins Barracks are said to still linger.
In the old farm for the rich and the powerful in the northern parts of Norway, Løp Gård is said to hold many of their former inhabitants, even in their death.
Was she a Witch or Serial Killer with connection to the Hellfire Club that her legends paint her to be? What was the true story behind Darkey Kelley, said to haunt Dublin as the Green Lady of the Liberties.
After tragedy struck Birthe Svendsdatter, she threw herself from the window and ended up with a limp and a brain injury. Called Halte-Birthe because of her limp, she is said to haunt Fossesholm Manor to this day.
